PRESTON AGAIN
I had seen Dick off at Paddington, after asking the guard to keep an eye
on him as far as Windsor, and was walking thoughtfully through the park
towards Albert Gate, when a man, meeting me where the paths cross, asked
if he might speak to me. Almost instantly I recognized him. It was the
man who had followed Preston, Jack, and myself on the previous night,
and been pointed out to us by Preston.
"I trust," he said, when I had asked him rather abruptly what he wanted
to speak to me about, "that you will pardon my addressing you, sir, but
there is something rather important I should like to say to you if you
have a few minutes to spare."
"Who are you?" I inquired. "What's your name?"
"I would rather not tell you my name," he answered, "and for the moment
it is inadvisable that you should know it. Shall we sit here?" he added,
as we came to a wooden bench.
I am rather inquisitive, otherwise I should not have consented to his
proposal. It flashed across me, however, that whereas there could be no
harm in my listening to what he wished to say, he might possibly have
something really of interest to tell me.
"You are probably not aware," he said, when we were seated, "that I
followed you last night from a house in Warwick Street, Regent Street,
to a restaurant in Gerrard Street, Soho; thence to Willow Road, near
Hampstead Station; and thence to South Molton Street Mansions. Two
gentlemen were with you."
"And may I ask why you did that?" I said carelessly, as I lit a
cigarette.
"That is my affair," he replied. "You have lately been associating with
several men and women who, though you may not know it, belong to a gang
of exceedingly clever criminals. These people, while mixing in Society,
prey upon it. Until last night I was myself a member of this gang; for a
reason that I need not at present mention I have now disassociated
myself from it for ever. To-day my late accomplices will discover that I
have turned traitor, as they will term it, and at once they will set to
work to encompass my death," he added. "I want you, Mr. Berrington, to
save me from them."
I stared at him in surprise.
"But how can I do that, and why should I do it?" I said shortly. "I
don't know who you are, and if you choose to aid and abet criminals you
have only yourself to thank when they turn upon you."
"Naturally," he answered, with what looked very like a sneer; "I don't
ask you to do anything in return for nothing, Mr. Berrington. But if you
will help in this crisis, I can, and will, help you. At this moment you
are at a loss to know why, when you called at Willow Road an hour or so
ago, the woman who opened the door assured you that you had come to the
wrong house. You inquired first for Miss Challoner, then for Mrs.
Stapleton, and then for Hugesson Gastrell—am I not right?"
"Well, you are," I said, astonished at his knowledge.
"I was in the hall when you called, and I heard you. Gastrell, Mrs.
Stapleton, and Miss Challoner were also in the house. They are there
now, but to-night they go to Paris—they will cross from Newhaven to
Dieppe. It was to tell you they were going to Paris that I wished to
speak to you now—at least that was one reason."
"And what are the other reasons?" I asked, with an affectation of
indifference that I was far from feeling.
"I want money, Mr. Berrington, that is one other reason," the stranger
said quickly. "You can afford to pay for information that is worth
paying for. I know everything about you, perhaps more than you yourself
know. If you pay me enough, I can probably protect myself against these
people who until yesterday were my friends, but are now my enemies. And
I can put you in possession of facts which will enable you, if you act
circumspectly, presently to get the entire gang arrested."
"At what time do the three people you have just named leave for Paris?"
I asked, for the news that Connie Stapleton and Dulcie were going to
France together had given me a shock.
"To-night, at nine."
"Look here," I exclaimed, turning upon him sharply, "tell me everything
you know, and if it is worth paying for I'll pay."
In a few minutes the stranger had put several startling facts into my
possession. Of these the most important were that on at least four
occasions Connie Stapleton had deliberately exercised a hypnotic control
over Dulcie, and thus obtained even greater influence over her than she
already possessed; that Jack Osborne, whom I had always believed to be
wholly unsusceptible to female influence, was fast falling in love, or,
if not falling in love, becoming infatuated with Jasmine Gastrell—the
stranger declared that Mrs. Gastrell had fallen in love with him, but
that I could not believe; that an important member of this notorious
gang of criminals which mixed so freely in Society was Sir Roland's
wastrel brother, Robert, of whom neither Sir Roland nor any member of
his family had heard for years; and that Mrs. Stapleton intended to
cause Dulcie to become seriously ill while abroad, then to induce Sir
Roland to come to France to see her, and finally to marry him on the
other side of the Channel in the small town where she intended that
Dulcie should be taken ill. There were reasons, he said, though he would
not reveal them then, why she wished to marry Sir Roland on the
Continent instead of in England, and she knew of no other way of
inducing him to cross the Channel but the means she intended to employ.
The man hardly stopped speaking when I sprang to my feet.
"How much do you want for the information you have given me?" I
exclaimed, hardly able to conceal the intense excitement I felt.
He named a high figure, and so reckless did I feel at that instant that
I told him I would pay the amount to him in gold—he had stipulated for
gold—if he would call at my flat in South Molton Street at five o'clock
on the following afternoon.
His expressions of gratitude appeared, I must say, to be most genuine.
"And may I ask," he said, "what you propose to do now?"
"Propose to do!" I cried. "Why, go direct to Willow Road, of course,
force an entrance, and take Miss Challoner away—by force, if need be."
"You propose to go there alone?"
"Yes. For the past fortnight I have somehow suspected there might be
some secret understanding between Mr. Osborne and Mrs. Gastrell—they
have been so constantly together, though he has more than once assured
me that his intimacy was only with a view to obtaining her confidence. I
don't know why I should believe your word, the word of a stranger, in
preference to his, but now you tell me what you have told me I remember
many little things which all point to the likelihood of your statement
that he is in love with Mrs. Gastrell being true."
"I wouldn't go alone, Mr. Berrington," the stranger said in a tone of
warning. "You don't know the people you have to deal with as I know
them. If you would like to come to Paris with me to-night I could show
you something that would amaze you—and you would come face to face
there with Connie Stapleton and Miss Challoner, and others. Be advised
by me, and do that. I am telling you to do what I know will be best for
you. I don't ask you to pay me until we return to England."
I paused, uncertain what to decide. Thoughts crowded my brain.
Supposing, after all, that this were a ruse to entrap me. Supposing that
Dulcie were not going to Paris. But no, the man's statements seemed
somehow to carry conviction.
"If we cross by the same boat as they do," I said suddenly, "we shall be
recognized."
He smiled grimly.
"Not if you disguise yourself as you did at Hugesson Gastrell's the
other night," he said.
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, "how do you know that?"
He looked to right and left, then behind him. Nobody was near. Then,
raising his hat, like lightning he pulled off his wig, eyebrows and
moustache, whiskers and beard, crammed them into his jacket pocket, and,
with his hat on the back of his head, sat back looking at me with a
quiet smile of amusement.
"Preston!" I gasped. "Good heavens, man, how do you do it?"
Producing his cigarette case, in silence he offered me a cigarette. Then
he spoke—now in his natural voice.
"I always test my 'impersonations' when I get a chance of doing so," he
said, "upon people who know me well, because if one can completely
deceive one's friends it gives much confidence when one comes to serious
business. Mr. Berrington, all I have just told you is absolute truth. I
have found it all out within the last eleven hours. More than that, I am
myself now one of the gang, and if I 'turn traitor' I shall be done to
death by them just as certainly as I am sitting here. I flatter myself
that I have arranged it all rather cleverly—I have succeeded in placing
in confinement that man who shadowed you last night, without any member
of the gang's knowing anything about his arrest or in the least
suspecting it, and I have literally stepped into his shoes, for these
clothes and boots that I am wearing are his. I believe the end of this
abominable conspiracy is now within sight. To-night you must come with
me to Paris on the boat that Miss Challoner, the woman Stapleton,
Gastrell, and one or two others will cross by. I shall assume the
disguise I have just removed. You will become once more Sir Aubrey
Belston, we shall travel from Victoria in separate compartments, and on
board the boat I shall casually mention to my 'friends' that Sir Aubrey
Belston is on board. In Paris we ought to find out a lot—I have a
friend there named Victor Albeury, who already knows a lot about this
affair—and we shall, unless I am greatly mistaken. Now I must go home
and get some hours of sleep, for I have been busy since we parted in the
'Tube' at Oxford Circus at midnight last night."
"But tell me," I exclaimed, my brain a whirl, "is what you told me
really true: that Osborne has become a victim to the wiles of Jasmine
Gastrell?"
"Absolutely. I have suspected as much for several weeks, and last night
I discovered it to be an absolute fact. Mr. Berrington, when Osborne
left us last night at Russell Square station he didn't return to his
hotel. Would you believe it, he had an assignation with the woman, and
kept it? But what is more curious still is what you wouldn't believe
when I told it to you some minutes ago—Jasmine Gastrell has fallen
madly in love with Osborne! Isn't it astonishing? To think that an
amazingly clever woman like that should let her heart get the better of
her head. But it's not the first case of the sort that I have known. I
could tell you of several similar instances of level-headed women of the
criminal class letting their hearts run away with them, and some day I
will. But now I really must leave you. Go back to your place, pack as
much luggage as you will need for a week or ten days—for we may be away
that long—write Sir Aubrey Belston's name on the luggage labels in a
disguised handwriting; send it to Victoria by messenger—not by your own
man, as we must take no risks whatever—and come to me not later than
six, and I will then again disguise you as Sir Aubrey Belston. You won't
be followed by any member of the gang, for the man I am impersonating
is supposed to be shadowing you. Connie Stapleton expects Alphonse
Furneaux—that's the man who followed you last night, and whom I am now
impersonating—to meet her at Victoria at a quarter past eight to-night.
You will get there a little later, and of course we must appear to be
total strangers. Keep out of sight of the woman, and of Gastrell, and of
anyone else you may see whom you remember seeing at Cumberland Place the
other night. You can speak to anybody you like once we are on board the
boat, but not before. The train leaves at nine. My! I am disappointed
with Osborne, more disappointed and disgusted than I can tell you. And
to think that if I had not made this discovery about him he might
unwittingly have brought about some fearful tragedy so far as you and I
are concerned! But I must really go," and, with a friendly nod, he rose
and strolled away.
He had spoken rapidly, with hardly a pause, and as I watched him pass
out of the park I wondered how he had managed to ingratiate himself with
this gang of scoundrels. Only a day or two before we had discussed the
advisability of informing Easterton of what was taking place nightly in
the house in Cumberland Place which he had leased to Hugesson Gastrell,
but we had come to the conclusion that no good end would be served by
telling him, for were any complaint to be made to Gastrell he would of
course declare that the people who gambled in the house were personal
friends of his whom he had every right to invite there to play.
I returned to my flat, told my man what to pack, then went out again and
walked aimlessly about the streets. A feeling of restlessness was upon
me, which I could not overcome. Many strange things had happened since
Christmas, but this, surely, was the strangest thing of all, that Jack
Osborne, who had persuaded me to help him in his self-imposed task of
tracking down these people, should actually have come under the spell of
Jasmine Gastrell's beauty and undeniable fascination. I recollected now
his saying, when, weeks before, he had spoken of Jasmine Gastrell for
the first time, that everybody on board the ship had fallen in love with
her, and that he himself had been desperately attracted by her. But I
had thought that he spoke in jest; it had not occurred to me that he
really thought seriously about the woman. Of late, however, his manner
towards her had certainly been different, and I knew that night after
night the two had spent the evening together, ending up with supper at
one of the fashionable restaurants.
Then my thoughts drifted to Dulcie. What had come over her since she had
formed this violent attachment for Connie Stapleton? In some ways she
seemed unchanged, yet in other respects she was completely altered. For
a brief ten days after we had become engaged I had seemed to be all in
all to her. But from then onward she had appeared to come more and more
under the influence of her friend, who seemed, in a sense, to be
supplanting me in her affection. And now Preston had told me that
several times Connie Stapleton had intentionally hypnotized Dulcie, no
doubt for the purpose of obtaining greater control over her and still
further bending her will to hers. I could not, under the circumstances,
wholly blame Dulcie for what I had at first believed to be a change in
her attitude towards me. Far more readily could I blame her father for
his monstrous infatuation for the widow.
And what could be the meaning of this sudden flitting to Paris? Preston
had given the reason, had explained it in detail, but his theory was so
horrible that I refused to believe it. Connie Stapleton might be, and
obviously was, an adventuress, but surely a woman of such beauty, with
such charm of manner and personality, and apparently so refined, could
not actually be the monster Preston would have had me believe. The view
I held was that Connie Stapleton and some of her accomplices for some
reason found it expedient to forsake England for a little while—Preston
had assured me that they meant to remain upon the Continent for several
weeks at least—and that the woman thought that by taking Dulcie with
her she would be better able to persuade Sir Roland to cross the
Channel, a thing he had done only once in his life, and that I had
heard him declare he would never do again, so ill had he been on that
occasion.
One of the first men I saw upon my arrival at Victoria in my disguise
was Preston disguised as Alphonse Furneaux. With him were Connie
Stapleton, Dulcie, Gastrell, and one or two men I did not remember
having seen before. Doris Lorrimer was also there.
Obsequious officials were hurrying about doing their bidding, in
anticipation of generous _largesse_. Here and there little groups of
passengers stood staring at them, obviously under the impression that
they must be people of some importance. Acting upon Preston's
instructions I kept well out of sight until within a minute or two of
nine o'clock, by which time the widow and her companions had entered
their saloon carriage.
I had hardly stepped into my first-class compartment, which was some way
behind the saloon, and settled myself comfortably for the journey to
Newhaven, when a lady, the only other occupant, suddenly exclaimed:
"Aubrey, don't you recognize me, or are you intentionally cutting me?"
I glanced across at her. She was a woman of middle age, obviously a
lady, well dressed, but not good-looking. Hastily recovering my presence
of mind, I answered quickly:
"I beg your pardon. Please don't think me rude; I was worrying about a
trunk of mine that I think has been left behind, and for the moment I
didn't see you"—she was seated on the opposite side, in the corner
farthest from me.
"Of course I don't think you rude, you foolish boy," she exclaimed
gaily. "How could I? And how are you, dear? and where are you going? I
had no idea you had already returned from your travels."
"I got back only last week," I said, feeling my way cautiously. "How
well you are looking. Let me see, when was it we last met?"
She broke into a ripple of laughter.
"Oh, Aubrey," she exclaimed, "what a wag you are! When are you going to
grow up, I wonder. Now, do be serious and answer that question I put to
the last night we were together."
This was awful. The train had only just started, and here I was face to
face with a woman evidently an intimate friend of Sir Aubrey Belston's,
who for aught I knew might insist on talking to me and cross-questioning
me all the way to Newhaven. I decided to take the bull by the horns.
"Look here," I exclaimed, becoming suddenly serious, "don't let us talk
about that any more. The answer I gave you that night was final. I have
thought the whole thing over carefully, and, much as I should like to,
I can't change my mind."
She stared at me, evidently dumbfounded. I thought she looked rather
frightened. Her lips parted as if she were going to speak again, then
shut tightly. A minute or more passed, during which time she kept her
head averted, gazing out into the darkness. And then all at once, to my
horror, she burst into tears, and began sobbing hysterically.
The sight of a woman in tears always affects me strangely. I rose from
my seat and went over to her, and, now seated facing her, endeavoured by
every means I could think of to soothe her.
"Don't cry—oh, please don't," I said sympathetically. "It isn't my
fault, you know; I would do anything I could for you, I am sure you know
that, but what you ask is impossible."
"But _why_ is it impossible?" she suddenly burst out impetuously,
looking up into my face with tear-stained eyes. "Give me a good reason
for your refusal and I won't say a word more."
Oh, if only I knew what it was she had asked Sir Aubrey that night—what
it was she wanted him to do. Never in my life before had I been in such
an awful predicament. And then suddenly it flashed upon me that some day
she would for certain meet the real Sir Aubrey Belston again, and what
would happen then when she referred to this meeting in the train and he
stoutly denied—as of course he would—meeting her at all? What mischief
might I not unwittingly be doing? What havoc might I not be creating? If
only I could discover her name it might in some way help me to get out
of this terrible tangle.
The train was slowing down now. Presently it stopped. We were at
Croydon. The door opened and other travellers entered our compartment.
Putting some of my belongings on to my seat, I passed into the corridor
and entered a smoking compartment.
The man seated opposite me was buried in a newspaper. Some moments after
the train had started again, he lowered it, and I saw his face. At once
he raised his eyebrows in recognition; then, extending his hand, greeted
me most cordially.
I was face to face again with Hugesson Gastrell!